


I don't know how it happened but I'm all shook up

by kiranerys42



Category: Score: A Hockey Musical (2010)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sickfic, except I think Farley is the only idiot in this relationship, except it's oblivious pining, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranerys42/pseuds/kiranerys42
Summary: Farley keeps getting hurt, and Moose keeps taking care of him. Obviously, this is a problem that needs to be solved.
Relationships: Farley Gordon/Moose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 14
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	I don't know how it happened but I'm all shook up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [codswallop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/gifts).



> Thank you to [redacted] for hair pats and for helping me when I did silly things like mix up Farley and Moose's names.
> 
> Thank you to [redacted] for helping me with Canadian things and also hockey things. Any remaining errors on either of those topics are entirely my fault.
> 
> And thank you to N for the "Toronto Termites."
> 
> Title is from a Noah Reid song, because why not.

The first time it happens, Farley isn’t expecting it at all.

Well—he was expecting _some_ of it; he knew he’d get hurt on the ice again, eventually, even if his renewed commitment to pacifism had been working out pretty well now that he had the whole team backing him up. But then they played a game against the Toronto Termites, and one of their players mistook Farley’s Gandhi quote for a Hindi insult—at least, that’s what Farley is assuming happened—and he punched Farley right in the face.

But even though Farley wasn’t really _expecting_ to get punched in the face, that wasn’t exactly a surprise, either.

No, the part he isn’t expecting is what comes after.

Farley’s sitting in the locker room, leaning so far forward that his head is almost between his knees, hoping at least that way the blood will drip onto the floor instead of his uniform. He’s just considering getting up and reassessing the damage when he’s startled by a hand on his back. He hadn’t even noticed someone sitting down next to him.

“Wha—” Farley tries to sit up, but the hand presses him back down with surprising strength. 

“Keep your head down,” Moose murmurs, “you don’t want to swallow more blood than you have to, trust me. How bad is it?”

“I’b dot sure,” Farley says. “I’b dever been punched id the face before.”

“Well, I guess it was just a matter of time,” Moose sighs. “I’ll be right back with some stuff to help get you cleaned up, okay?”

“You don’t have to—” Farley tries to sit up to stop Moose, but the sudden movement makes the pain in his nose worsen, not to mention the pounding headache he seems to be developing, so he leans back over and resigns himself to accepting Moose’s help.

Moose returns a few minutes later, and this time, Farley hears Moose sit down next to him on the bench. Even if Farley hadn’t heard Moose coming, he’d still have noticed him, though, since Moose is sitting so close to Farley that their thighs are pressed together. 

“Alright, Gordon, you’re gonna have to sit up so I can get you cleaned up. Go _slowly_ though, I don’t want you passing out.”

Farley sits up as slowly as he can. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he feels Moose’s hand on his back, steadying him.

“There we go,” Moose says. Moose is _really_ close to his face. “Okay, that’s—well, noses always bleed a lot, but it doesn’t look broken, so I think you’ll be okay. I’ll just—I’m gonna be careful, but this will probably still hurt, so—don’t move, alright?”

Moose wipes Farley’s face off with a damp cloth, and it _does_ hurt a bit, even though Farley can tell Moose is being really gentle. Farley hadn’t realized Moose could be that gentle. He wonders what else he doesn’t know about Moose. 

“Okay, here’s an ice pack, hold this—yeah, right there.” Moose holds an ice pack up to Farley’s face, and their hands brush as Farley lifts his hand to take the ice pack from Moose. Moose’s hands are really warm. How are his hands so warm, if he was just holding an ice pack? “I’ll be right back with some ibuprofen. You might want to tilt your head back down, but don’t lean over all the way, you want to keep your head elevated.”

Moose is gone before Farley has a chance to try to object again, so he tilts his head down and closes his eyes. Farley isn’t sure how much time passes before Moose comes back; the pain is getting worse, now, which seems to be messing with Farley’s perception of time. Is that normal? Maybe Farley can do some research, when he gets home—

“Drink this.” Farley opens his eyes and sees Moose holding out a bottle of water. “And take a few of these.” Moose raises his other hand to shake a bottle of pills. 

Farley takes the water, and Moose pours a few pills out into Farley’s hand. He drinks the water slowly, because it hurts to move, and to tilt his head back, and to swallow. But with Moose’s encouragement, he’s eventually able to drink half the bottle.

“Okay, kid, I think you’re safe to go home now, but make sure you sleep upright, alright? And keep an ice pack on that nose as much as you can. Let me know if it looks crooked once the swelling goes down.”

“Oh. Uh—thanks.” Farley isn’t sure why he feels so disappointed at the thought of going home.

“No problem. Do me a favor, though…”

“Yes?” Moose is so kind, and so helpful; Farley would do anything he asks.

“ _Try_ not to get punched in the face again.”

“Excuse me, it’s not _my_ fault that guy didn’t know Hindi—”

Moose laughs and slaps a hand on Farley’s back—gently—before getting up and leaving. Farley gets up, too, although much more slowly.

When he gets home, Farley grabs another ice pack out of the freezer before settling into bed. He props up pillows around himself so that he’ll stay upright, just like Moose said. He feels… weird, and not just because of the pain; he feels weird in other ways, too. He feels weird _mentally_. But maybe this anxious twisty feeling in the pit of his stomach is a completely normal reaction to being subjected to needless violence. And if he falls asleep thinking of the feeling of Moose’s warm hand on his back, well, it only makes sense that he’d want to fixate on something pleasant, to help him forget the unpleasant sensation of having his nose bashed in.

*

Two weeks later, Farley gets punched in the face again. 

“ _One_ thing, Gordon, I told you _one_ thing; to try not to get punched in the face again—”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to get punched in the face, it just _happened_ —”

“Well, what did you _expect_ him to do when you started yelling all that gobbledegook—”

“It’s not _gobbledegook_ , it’s _Latin_ , and I thought maybe it would go over better than the Hindi.”

“Well, maybe you should stick to English from now on. Or French, when we play La Glace, but only if your accent’s good. You might get worse than a broken nose, otherwise.”

Farley jerks his head up in surprise, and it makes Moose’s hand bump against his nose where he’s wiping the blood off. “ _Ow_!” he yells. “It’s _broken_?”

“Well, it will be if you can’t hold _still_ ,” Moose grumbles. 

“Sorry,” Farley says sheepishly, and he renews his efforts to be good and hold still for Moose. It’s for the best, really; it hurts less when he sits still. 

“Okay, you know the drill: ice pack, stay upright, let me know if it looks crooked tomorrow.”

“Yes, Moose,” Farley agrees.

“Ugh. How did you make that sound like _yes ma’am_? Now scram.”

Farley figures it won’t be so weird this time, when he gets home. Like Moose said—he knows the drill. Ice pack, pillows to prop himself upright, check for a crooked nose in the morning. But if anything, he feels _more_ weird this time. He can’t stop thinking about the way Moose’s hands felt on his face, trying to hold him still as he cleaned him up. Maybe it’s just weird because Farley hasn’t really gotten hurt like this, before he started playing hockey; he’s never needed anyone to take care of him that way. Well, maybe his mom did, a few times when he was a kid—but he _definitely_ doesn’t remember feeling this way back then.

Farley’s strange, meandering thoughts keep him awake much later than he should be, but eventually, he dozes off.

*

The next time it happens, Farley gets a concussion. Well—Moose says it’s a concussion. Or, he says it _might_ be a concussion. Farley doesn’t really know how concussions work, but Moose certainly seems to. Farley’s pretty sure Moose knows _everything_ , or at least, everything there is to know about hockey. And hockey injuries. And, according to Moose, a concussion isn’t something he can patch up in the locker room right after the game—this time, Farley has to go home with Moose.

Moose lives in an apartment, with a roommate, a _woman_ roommate, except according to Moose she’s not his girlfriend, which seems important for some reason. Actually—come to think of it, she looks familiar…

“Who’re you?” Farley slurs. 

“Um, hi there. I’m Claudette. You might’ve seen me around at a game before?”

Farley snaps his fingers and points at her. “ _Right_! You’re Claudette! Eve told me she’s been hanging out with you lately.” Farley doesn’t hear Claudette’s response, though, because Moose is guiding him to sit down on the couch, and then Moose is bringing him water and medicine and snacks and tea, and it’s all very overwhelming, and soon, Farley dozes off.

Except not for long, because Moose is being very loud. Why is Moose being loud?

“Farley, you have to wake up. I can’t let you sleep for very long. How are you feeling?”

“M’tired. Y’should let me sleep.”

“I can’t do that right now. Can you tell me where you are?”

“Couch.”

“Can you be more _specific_?”

“Uhh. Your apartment. Toronto. I don’t remember your exact address. I could probably figure out the latitude and longitude… Where’s my phone? Is it—” Farley reaches towards the coffee table, where he sees what might be a vaguely phone-shaped rectangle, but Moose pushes his hand away.

“Nope, no screens for you right now. Can you tell me your full name and age?”

“Farley Nicholas Gordon, eighteen and… seven months, five days, sixteen hours—wait, no, eight hours, I mean—”

“Okay, kid,” Moose laughs. Why is Moose laughing? Is something funny happening? Farley peers around the room looking for the funny thing, but he can’t see anything, except that Moose’s apartment is kind of messy.

“Your apartment’s messy,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah. Close your eyes, okay? I think you can nap a while longer.”

Farley thinks about arguing with Moose, but sleeping is easier, so he does that instead.

*

Farley isn’t sure how much time passes, because he’s in and out of sleeping for most of it. But by the time the pounding in his head goes down and he’s feeling more aware of his surroundings, Moose is ushering him into the car and driving him home. The car ride takes a lot of energy, more than a car ride has any right to, and when he gets home, Farley decides to sleep a while longer.

When he wakes up, Farley makes and eats an entire frozen pizza—vegetarian, of course—and decides it’s time to fix this, for once and for all. This imbalanced social dynamic between him and Moose is just too weird. Farley doesn’t want to examine the feeling too closely, because it makes him uncomfortable. He just knows it’s _wrong_. Moose shouldn’t be looking after him all the time like this. Farley needs to find some way to even things out.

Except, Farley isn’t quite sure where to start. So he does what he always does when he’s unsure of how to proceed: he Googles it.

Admittedly, he’s not really sure _what_ to Google. So he starts out by just typing in ‘how to take care of someone.’ He realizes after hitting ‘enter’ that it seems a little too vague, or maybe even ominous—he doesn’t mean _take care of_ as a euphemism; he means it literally. Thankfully, the first few results take it literally, too, and the advice is… in the right ballpark, at least. Or in the right hockey rink. He’s not going to write Moose a _powerful letter full of love and hope_ , and he’s certainly not going to give him a _makeover_. A lot of this advice sounds like the kind of things Farley used to do for Eve when they were dating, before they realized they were actually better off as friends. Doing those kinds of things for a friend like Moose would just be _weird_ , so Farley doesn’t even consider them.

Some of the ideas are good, though, and Farley settles on one in particular:

> Spend time reminiscing about the fun times that you've shared (as children, in high school or college, or on vacations). Remind him or her that there will be more good times in the future.

Farley has _lots_ of great memories with Moose—that one should be easy.

But when Farley tries to reminisce with Moose on the drive to their next away game, he discovers it’s not easy. In fact, Moose doesn’t seem to care at all.

“Yeah, and remember that time, when—”

“Look, kid, I love reminiscing about the good times too,” Moose says, staring out the window of the bus and fiddling with his earbuds. “But I need to get through this audiobook before our bus ride ends, alright? It’s for my English class. There’s only an hour left. I can chat with you when I’m done.”

“Oh. Okay.” Farley puts his own earbuds in, turns on Revisionist History, and tries to convince himself he’s not sulking.

*

After the catastrophic failed attempt to reminisce with Moose, Farley decides to step it up. He spends a few more hours Googling, and somehow he ends up down a rabbit hole that ends on the ‘Intragroup Dynamics’ page on Wikipedia, except then he realizes that he and Moose aren’t even a _group_ , they’re just two people, and you need at least three distinct things to classify something as a ‘group.’ Farley does get some helpful ideas for how to help the Blades function even better as a team, though, so it’s not a complete waste. 

Farley adjusts his Google search so that it’s focused on friendships instead of group dynamics, and he ignores the advice that says you should just talk to your friend about your worries, because that’s obviously not going to work.

> Friends can offer support in so many ways: soup when you’re sick, words of comfort or distraction after a bad day, or a spare bedroom when you need to get away.

This advice seems alright, except Farley’s not sure what Moose would need to get away _from_. Besides, Farley still lives with his parents, and they’re using the spare bedroom as storage for all the Chechen art for their upcoming exhibition, since Eve’s parents’ gallery will still be showing their current exhibit, ‘Modified Mapplethorpe: A Manifestation of Myriorama’ for another month and a half.

After Googling just a little bit more, Farley settles on two things he can do for Moose. The first is a general offer of future help—soup, comfort, _maybe_ a spare room to sleep in. The second is the only specific piece of useful advice that he found, which is that a good friend ‘listens with empathy.’ Farley’s sure he can do that. He’s good at listening. At least, he thinks he is—his accordion teacher used to say he had a good ear, and that’s pretty much the same thing. 

*

A children’s hockey class uses the rink before the Blades do on Thursdays, which means Farley finds himself standing next to Moose watching small children try not to fall down on the ice. He figures now is as good a time as any to try out that ‘listening’ thing.

“Hey, Moose, how’s it going?”

“Oh, I can’t complain.”

“Yeah? What’s new?”

“Nothing much.”

Moose shoves his hands in his pockets. Farley shuffles his feet on the floor, and keeps trying. He can’t exactly listen if Moose isn’t talking, after all.

“How’s...um...your mom?”

“What?”

“I said, how’s your—”

“I heard what you said. Just, why are you asking about my mother?”

Farley shrugs. “I dunno. Never mind.”

“Okay.”

Farley watches the kids skate. A little boy falls over, and another boy bends down to help him get up. 

“When did you start skating?” Farley asks.

Moose laughs. “Oh, I was young. My dad used to say I was born with skates on.”

Farley opens his mouth to say how improbable that is, and how it would necessitate a C-section, but he bites his tongue just in time, and Moose keeps talking.

“I was probably three or four the first time I put skates on. My uncle owns a curling rink, though, so that wasn’t my first time on the ice.”

Farley wrinkles his nose, and he's about to complain about how curling ice is all bumpy and weird when he remembers he’s supposed to be _listening_. So, he listens. Moose talks a bit more about his uncle’s curling rink, although it seems Moose’s uncle was more concerned with food and beer than with actually curling. Moose is halfway through a somewhat disturbing story involving a keg of Lucky Lager and an _actual moose_ when Coach Donker interrupts them.

“Get your asses in the locker room! The kids are almost done!”

Moose smiles sheepishly. “I’ll just have to finish the story later, I guess.” But he doesn’t. After practice, they all head straight home.

Farley vows he’ll get the story out of Moose tomorrow.

*

Except the next day, Moose isn’t at practice.

“Where’s Moose?” Farley asks.

“Out sick,” Coach Donker replies, and immediately turns his attention back to Maurice, who he’s chewing out for working on his trick shots in practice yesterday. Farley tries not to freak out—it _probably_ isn’t something serious—but he sends Moose a text asking how he is, just in case.

After practice, Farley still hasn’t gotten a response, so he decides it’s time for more drastic measures. Thankfully, he remembers where Moose lives, so he can stop by to check on him. Or, he’s pretty sure he remembers where Moose lives. He _did_ have a concussion the last time he was there.

But it turns out Farley has a pretty good sense of direction, even when concussed, and he finds Moose’s apartment without any issues.

Farley knocks on the door, but there’s no response. So he knocks louder.

“Moose?” Farley shouts, continuing to knock. “Are you okay?”

The muffled grunting Farley hears in response _might_ Moose attempting to say ‘I’m fine, go away,’ but it’s hard to tell through the closed door.

“Is the door unlocked? I’m coming in, I can’t hear you.” Farley turns the handle, and sure enough, it’s unlocked. He vaguely remembers giving Moose a hard time about that last time he was here. _“You should lock your door—anyone could come in!”_ , Farley said. Of course, now Farley’s benefitting from Moose’s lack of concern for his personal safety. 

Although, considering how much effort puts into looking after Farley—often at his own expense—in a way, Farley is _always_ benefitting from Moose’s lack of concern for his personal safety. 

Farley enters Moose’s apartment to see Moose sprawled out on the couch. He’s half-covered by a tattered old blanket, and surrounded by used tissues and—is that an empty soup can?

“Go ‘way,” Moose mutters. “‘M sick. Y’shouldn’t be here. I’m contagious.”

“Nonsense,” Farley replies. “I’ll just—wash my hands a lot. It will be fine. Um.” Farley is realizing that he didn’t actually make a plan beyond _go over to Moose’s place_. What is he supposed to do now? Farley doesn’t know how to take care of someone who’s sick. He can barely take care of _himself_ , and that’s when he’s healthy. 

“Where’s Claudette?” Maybe she’ll know what to do.

“She left to stay with a friend as soon as I—uh. Said she didn’t want to catch it.”

“Right. Okay. Uh. I’ll just be—in the kitchen.”

Moose lets out a wheezy sigh which is followed by a coughing fit. “Fine, kid,” he manages. “Whatever you want.”

When he gets to the kitchen, the first thing Farley does is fill a glass with water, because staying hydrated is a good idea all the time, so it’s probably a good idea when you’re sick, too. Except Farley’s feeling really nervous, which makes him jittery, which makes him wonder if _he’s_ dehydrated. So he decides to drink this glass of water himself and fill another one for Moose when he’s done. 

The next thing Farley does is take out his phone and Google ‘how to take care of someone who’s sick.’ He doesn’t want to take too long, so he scrolls through the results frantically, trying to find at least _one_ helpful thing he can do for Moose. He sees something about how if someone has a fever, you shouldn’t cover them in blankets, and he thinks about that blanket Moose was under. That seems—not good. Maybe he should move the blanket. Yeah, that’s something easy. Farley can do that.

Except Moose doesn’t want to let go of the blanket.

“What are you _doing_? It’s fucking freezing in here.” Moose grabs the blanket back from Farley, and glares at him as he carefully repositions it over his lap. “Besides, you shouldn’t touch this. It’s covered in germs.”

“I’m gonna wash my hands, remember?” Farley waves his hands in the air, far away from his face, because he’s not _stupid_. “And the internet said—”

“I don’t give a fuck what the internet says. My heater barely works. I’m keeping the blanket.”

“Fine. Uh—hold on. I forgot—” Right. The water. Farley runs back to the kitchen to grab a glass of water for Moose, and when he returns, the water goes over much better than the attempted blanket confiscation did. 

Moose is curled up on one end of the couch, so Farley figures it’s safe to sit on the other end. Moose glares at him for a moment, but then he leans back and closes his eyes. Farley doesn’t think he’s asleep, though, just resting. 

Farley takes his phone back out and idly scrolls through the search results, not really reading, just thinking. Maybe he could text Eve for help? No, last time they talked, she said—well, a lot of things, which mostly boiled down to ‘I’m not your mother’ and ‘I know we were both homeschooled but somehow I’ve managed to pick up basic life skills, you should try it, too.’ Right. So. Not texting Eve. 

Farley briefly considers texting his _actual_ mother for help, and dismisses the idea just as quickly. He’s an adult. He can figure this out. 

He’s staring at the clutter on the coffee table when a thought occurs to him. Something he read a couple weeks ago, when he was first trying to figure out how to take care of Moose the way Moose kept taking care of him.

“Moose—when did you eat that soup? Is there more?”

“What? Oh, that was—I didn’t even heat it up. It was disgusting.”

“Right. And—how long ago did you eat it? Actually, you know what? Never mind. I’ll be right back.”

Farley picks up the empty can and heads off to the kitchen without waiting for Moose’s response.

*

Twenty minutes and only one close call with a burnt pan later, Farley returns with a bowl of properly heated soup. He even added a dash of Tabasco, to make it extra fancy. 

“Here you go,” Farley says, carefully setting the bowl on the coffee table in front of Moose. “It’s pretty hot, so be careful.”

“What?” Moose mumbles. Oh shit—Farley’s pretty sure he just woke him up. “Oh—uh. Thanks.”

Moose is quiet as he’s eating, but the soup is making him cheer up a bit. At least, Farley thinks it is. He’s pretty sure.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mmph,” Moose replies around a mouthful of soup. “Like shit,” he says after he swallows. 

“Oh. Uh—what—is the soup helping?”

“It’s—yeah, it’s good. Shockingly, it’s better when it’s hot than it is at room temperature. So, thank you.”

“Oh. Uh. It’s—it’s nothing. No big deal.” Farley wants to help Moose, but he’s not sure how to handle Moose _thanking_ him. It seems excessive. 

After Moose finishes the soup, Farley takes the bowl into the kitchen and washes it, ignoring Moose’s protests about not touching the ‘infected bowl.’ He returns to the couch, sits down, and reminds himself that a lot of the advice he found about taking care of a sick friend said to just ‘keep them company.’ Farley can do that.

“I’m gonna—um—just stay and keep you company.”

“Oh, I know I can’t get rid of you,” Moose replies. Is Moose—is he _laughing_? Farley can’t quite tell.

It’s weird just sitting there in silence, though.

“Can I turn on the TV?”

“Sure, but—wait. The remote is all gross, too, I used it earlier. Can you—I have sanitizing wipes on that shelf over there, use those.” 

Once Farley has sanitized the remote to Moose’s satisfaction, he flips through the channels until he finds something that doesn’t look too annoying. 

Farley’s barely paying attention to what’s on the TV, though. He can’t stop thinking about the advice he read about how to take care of someone who’s sick. Keeping Moose company seems too easy, like it’s not enough. Farley isn’t sure what else he could _do_ , though. He tries to remember what else he read. Something about—personal care? But he’s not—he can’t give Moose a _bath_ , that’s ridiculous. 

“I bet this isn’t how you planned on spending your Friday night, huh?” 

Farley turns to Moose in surprise. He’d almost forgotten he was there. Well, obviously he hadn’t _actually_ forgotten he was there, since Moose is the whole reason Farley’s there. 

“Oh. Uh—I didn’t really have plans. I’m supposed to go to an exhibit with my parents this weekend, but that’s not til tomorrow.”

“An exhibit?” Moose asks. So Farley tells him all about Eve’s parents’ gallery, and the Mapplethorpe exhibit—

“Modified—what?”

So Farley explains who Mapplethorpe was, and what myriorama are—

“That sounds moronic.”

“It’s—well, it’s a little macabre, I’ll admit, but—”

“I think it sounds mad. Maybe even monstrous.”

Moose looks like he’s smiling, but Farley can’t figure out why. 

“I need to check your temperature. I think you might have a fever? You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m making perfect sense,” Moose argues as Farley holds a hand to his forehead. “You’re the one who doesn’t make any sense.”

“You feel pretty warm. Do you think the fever is messing with your head?”

“Oh, it’s not the fever,” Moose mutters. 

Now that Farley’s over on Moose’s end of the couch, it seems weird to retreat all the way back to his side of the couch. So he settles in on the middle couch cushion, and tells Moose a bit more about the Mapplethorpe exhibit—and then about the Chechen art exhibit, and the All Things Chechnya extravaganza from last year, and…

Farley just barely manages to stay upright when Moose falls over on his shoulder. 

“Moose?” he whispers, but Moose doesn’t move. So Farley sits very still—if Moose is asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him up.

The show now playing on the TV is some sitcom he’s never seen before. Farley doesn’t really watch sitcoms, so he reaches for the remote, but it’s way over on the other end of the couch, and—he can’t quite reach it, not with Moose asleep on him. 

So, he resigns himself to watching the presumably terrible sitcom. Except it’s not so bad, once he gets into it. Except there are some serious continuity issues—the timeline makes absolutely no sense, and for some reason, it’s always summer. 

Moose is _heavy_ , and his weight on Farley’s side is nearly pushing him over. Farley shifts over just a bit, trying to get more comfortable, but Moose seems to take that as a sign that he should just lean over even _further_. His head is almost resting on Farley’s elbow, now, and that can’t possibly be any more comfortable for Moose than it is for Farley, so Farley lifts his arm, and—well, somehow Moose’s head ends up resting on his thigh.

Farley tries not to panic. Moose just fell asleep, and now he’s resting his head in Farley’s lap, and—it’s fine, this is fine. 

Except that Farley has no idea where to put his hands. He has a sudden flashback to his mom stroking his hair when he was young and didn’t feel well, and before he has a chance to even think about it, he finds he has a hand stroking through Moose’s hair. Moose doesn't have much hair, really, and what little he does have is currently greasy and damp, and it should be gross, but Farley doesn’t care in the slightest. 

Farley glances wistfully over at the remote, which is still firmly out of arm’s reach. Even if he can't turn off the TV or change the channel, at least Moose is getting some rest. 

Farley returns his attention to the TV, and after not too long, he dozes off, too. 

*

Farley isn’t sure who wakes up first, him or Moose. All he knows is that he has a horrific cramp in his neck from sleeping upright, and he’s staring down at Moose, who is blinking up at him sleepily.

“What’re you still doing here?”

“I’m taking care of you.”

“I get that, kid. But _why_?”

And that’s when everything spills out of Farley.

“It’s—you take care of me _all the time_! Like that time I got punched in the face—and the _other_ time I got punched in the face—and when I got that concussion… And it’s—it’s not _fair_ , that I can’t do anything for you in return; it’s weird, it makes me feel weird, so I figured if I—maybe if I evened things out, it would be less weird. Except now it’s even _more_ weird, because—I like it when you look after me, and I like looking after you, and—”

Moose presses his hand over Farley’s mouth. “Yeah, I like you too. Why d’you think I keep patching you up?” Moose sits up with a groan. “Fuck, my head _hurts_. I think I need some more water.” Moose moves as if he’s about to get up, but Farley jumps up off the couch before he has a chance to.

“I’ll get it!” Farley runs into the kitchen and comes back as quickly as he can with a glass of water. He hands the glass to Moose, sits back down next to him, and tries not to stare as Moose drinks it, even though the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows is surprisingly interesting. 

*

A few days later, it’s Farley’s turn to be sick. His head feels like it’s filled with fog, his nose feels like it’s filled with cement, and his chest feels like it’s filled with—well, with mucus. 

“Why are you here,” Farley whines at Moose. He’s curled under a blanket on one end of Moose’s couch, and Moose is at the other end, flipping through the channels on the TV, in an almost exact mirror image of how they’d been set up a few days ago when Moose was the one who was sick. 

“I’m here because this is my apartment,” Moose replies matter-of-factly. 

“I know, but—okay. Let me try again. Uh. Why am _I_ here?”

“Because I told you to come over here, remember? As soon as you told me your parents are out of town at that—uh—art thing.”

“It’s not art, it’s USSR propaganda posters, although—well, I guess it depends on if you take a modernist or postmodernist approach to defining—”

“Right.” Moose smiles as he interrupts Farley. “There’s no one to look after you at home, so it makes more sense if you’re here.”

“Fine,” Farley sighs. “I still don’t get why you want me here. I’m disgusting.”

“I don’t mind. I like looking after you.”

“Ugh. Was I this annoying when you were sick?”

“Yes. Which reminds me—do you need anything?”

“Uh… some tea would be nice. But—seriously. You don’t have to do this. I really am gross.”

“It’s fine, kid. I like you, remember?” Moose gets up, kisses the top of Farley’s head, and heads into the kitchen. 

Moose is already out of the room by the time Farley realizes what happened. It takes Farley the entire five minutes that Moose is gone making tea to fully process it. By the time Moose returns, Farley is pretty sure he’s got it figured out.

“You—uh—you _like_ me.”

“Right. We talked about this the other day. Are you—fuck, is your fever so bad you’re delirious?” Moose presses his hand to Farley’s forehead. Farley can feel that his face is flushed, but he’s pretty sure it’s not from the fever.

“Uh huh. I remember. I just—um. I didn’t realize—never mind. It’s fine.”

Moose raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns and settles in next to Farley on the couch, sitting so close their arms are touching. After a minute, Moose shifts to put his arm around Farley’s shoulders.

“You know, Farley—” Farley startles at hearing Moose say his first name; Moose usually calls him _Gordon_ or _kid_. “You’re a pretty smart cookie.”

“Huh?”

“And you’re definitely a whiz at hockey.”

“Uh—thanks?”

“But there are a few things you’re pretty slow to pick up on.”

Farley laughs. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

*

Once Farley’s recovered, they have several away games all in a row, which is exhausting and time-consuming; when they’re not on the rink, they’re usually stuck on the bus with the rest of the team for hours on end. Then Farley has to go to the Modified Mapplethorpe grand opening, and Eve is there with Claudette—like, _with_ Claudette—which should seem weird, but actually makes a lot of sense. It makes Farley wonder if he should have invited Moose.

But it’s okay, because it turns out Moose has been busy, too, with some family stuff. And finally, after practice one day, they both have a free evening together. 

“Let’s get pizza,” Moose suggests, and Farley has never been one to turn down pizza, so he agrees.

“So, Gordon, no broken nose today, right?” Moose asks.

Farley raises an eyebrow. “I’m feeling just fine. What about you? No fever? Stuffy nose?”

“I’m feeling great.” Moose smirks and takes a sip of his beer. Farley is drinking water, because he’s not nineteen yet, but also because beer is disgusting. Moose isn’t disgusting, though. Moose is… well. He’s pretty great. 

The pizza is good, too, so they stop talking for a while to focus on eating. It’s nice just to be with Moose, enjoying good food and good company, and not having to worry about one of them being hurt or sick. 

“Come back to my place?” Moose asks when they’re done. “We can watch more of that show you had on the other day. The one with the actor who looks kind of like you?”

“Sure,” Farley agrees. 

They don’t end up paying much attention to the TV after all, but that’s just fine with Farley—he’s happy to explore _all_ the ways he and Moose can take care of each other.


End file.
